It was one of those terribly, terribly sad cases of death. Marjory couldn’t cope. When Harold died, she couldn’t face it. She told none of her friends. She hid the body in a box in the garage and locked the door. She never went back.
For days, weeks, months after the death she wore black. On the rare occasion when she ventured out, mainly for groceries, people commented that they never saw her these days. “And we never see your husband shopping with you.” She told no one why, although once she broke down in public. Those who saw surmised that something was quite, quite wrong.
“Oh for God’s sake,” said her husband, Lincoln. “It was only a bloody canary.”